Bowid

I get on a train and there, to my right, sitting ahead of me, is David Bowie. He's no thin white duke in the dreamescape, appearing quite heavy, almost jowly, about the face with short, mussed spiky hair and wearing blue/grey rumpled suit. He wears gently tinted glasses that sit slightly too large on his face (although they are not in the true 'aviator' style). He doesn't resemble any recognisable period of Bowie at all (which, I guess, is the very idea) and I judge him to be in his mid-to-late 40's. Still, I know it's him and politely ask if I can sit down, knowing he has to move his bag/satchel to allow me to do so. I notice there is someone to his right, sitting by the window. The banks of seats all face in the same direction with a row of 2 ahead and 3 behind where I am sitting-

Beyond the two seats the carriage takes on a standard layout, the rows facing in towards each other. Of a group seated there 2 girls are peeking over at David and, more or less, discussing him quite openly. We all begin to joke/chat and David, in good spirits, makes light of the situation, stating he's he's quite happy to converse when recognised although often folk don't bother, even when they know for sure it is him. This really breaks the ice and he and I have an insightful conversation that examines the height of his fame. At one point I suggest, and he quite agrees, the idea of being able to make the decision to drop off the radar for a few years after making a record. He concurs and expands a little on that, adding something about everyone always being able to look him up in the phone book – I can see the finger tracing down the listings and stopping at the name 'Dixon' (?)-

Shortly after this we are confronted by a guy who, from looking over the back of his chair from further down the l/hand side of the carriage, decides to come over. He has short cropped hair, a round face and sports mirrored/dark sunglasses. He wears a bomber jacket, the sleeves pulled up on his forearms and tight-ish denims that are similarly turned up at the ankle. He walks confidently with something of a monkey-ish gait and, when talking to David, exudes and air of quiet violence. This smooth talking culminates in the guy grabbing David's neck and pinching his throat (all the while talking calmly about ?, referring again to Dixon(?) and what he calls Bowie's "Lazerus" period). I feel compelled to intervene, stating (laughably) that, “I'm a lover not a fighter, but...” I then make some statement about being from Glasgow (as if this gives an indication of my hitherto hidden hardman skills). The guy immediately releases David and lumbers over to me, saying that he too (in spite of his reedy, Newcastle accent) is also from Scotland-

Moluvice

https://lovemusicglasgow.com

I am in the Love Music record shop in Glasgow. Of course, being the dreamescape it bears no resemblance to reality. There are no records - at least not on display - for a start! For the most part my experience focusses on the vast counter. Indeed it's hardly a counter at all, being made up of 2-3 huge and unfurnished plywood sheets that narrows only to the far side (where's there's a bar-flap style access for staff). It's doubtful you could lean across the width of these tops to shake hands with someone-

I'm sure this layout has already altered since the dream began – I had previously being conversing with Bee Jay from my co-work on the decision to buy a pair of earplugs. The plugs, truth be told, resemble hearing aids in every respect, comprising black plastic 'buds' attached to a grey plastic 'curl' that hooks over and round the ear to hold them in place. As they are only ￡2.95 I/we decide to go for it. Unfortunately when Ess, the shop owner, brings them over for us to see I discover, to my disappointment, that the black earplugs are ￡6.95 and that the ￡2.95 price tag applies to a pair of light brown plastic earplugs, shaped much like apple stalks, that (somehow) clip into the larger, more expensive black pair-

As I toil over this (in)decision I become aware of a young hipster-ish guy, all unruly curly hair with a long face and an irritating, knowing expression. He is with his girlfriend and in his attempt to purchase two drinks(?) he is intentionally – although I assume it is accidental at first – jostling me about the knees. Fed up with this ignorant behaviour I face him and challenge him on it. He denies any wrongdoing and suddenly things begin to escalate-

Madamya

I am in some sort of columned restaurant(?)/basement function area. The column nearest the entry point is silver, almost as if insulated and wrapped in tinfoil. I (somehow) discover that if you hug it, wrap your arms tightly around it, it passes a warm, soothing sensation through your body – like a rising, (not unpleasant) burning feeling from your stomach to the back of your throat. I am encouraging the other people present to try it – I am following and attempting to talk to a slender girl with a ponytail all clad in black-

Walking into the space it is a bottle shape in plan, the walls tapering in towards the entry point, columns dotted here and there, the basic tubular steel and timber furniture – akin to old school desks and chairs – arranged in between. At the far end of the room there's two flat television screens positioned in a V-shape, facing into the space. There is a Japanese animated film screening and I am very puzzled by it, taking it for My Neighbours The Yamadas but realising, due to the traditional animation style and character designs, that it is not. It appears to be something (I'm not familiar with) called It Titto Tutt(?). Thinking to check a (handy) TV Guide I find that all the text is in Japanese, being very dense with the occasional illustration. 131?161?-

I notice the warm silver clad column has changed shape, becoming thicker around the bottom half so that it too resembles a bottle shape-

Rocotcoro

In a dreamescape home environment, similar to that of my childhood, the upstairs loft conversion. I am with friends Jay Emm, Ess Ayy and 2 others. I am kind of regretting having invited them to my home – not so much due to their laddish behaviour which in itself is more a tendency towards open, amused, brashness – but simply their being at odds with my own quiet, restrained nature (and my parents obvious preference for the same). We all sit, cross-legged, and I ask if anyone wants me to put some music on - cue a close up of my shelves of CDs – in spite of my (further) concern that neither Jay or Ess will think much of my collection. After much hesitant humming and haawing I take the plunge and pick CDL/CML? (or something titled like that). I look again while it is playing – its gentle, off-kilter ambient electronica that I thought was a recently acquired album by To Rococo Rot. I ask if anyone would like pork sandwiches and all are in agreement-

Much to my dismay when I go downstairs my mum has chopped and "crackled" the pork, frying it to give it an intentionally crispy, crunchy fatty edge. She comes upstairs(?) and asks the assembled if they would like to, “join us for dinner?”. I make huge excuses for everyone (as I hark back to my 'brash' concerns, worried as I am even now about what might be said). Do I salvage the situation with pork slices in rolls? I chat with one of the two A.N.Others – tho he mentions he knows (an) Elissa(?) - about the structure of the loft/roof conversion. It seems to be slightly unusual with several loose timber facias to the inside-

Kworky

I am somewhere in America. It is a green, deeply lush environment, all grassy fields, blooming trees and bushes with a humid, drizzly air. My brother-in-law and I are driving up a gently winding road admiring this (country)side. As we motor along we are searching (through our minds) for a house we visited years earlier. There are several coming up on our left and it is with a collective sadness, with genuine heavy hearts, that we find the house of our fond memories to be derelict, the clapper board abode collapsed in on itself. In fact it takes us some time to even realise it IS this house and when the truth finally dawns we suddenly become worried about the family who used to live there, about the two sons and the (most welcome and excellent!) pizza we shared there. There is a vintage bus out the back and the winding metal stair to the upper deck seems to confirm for sure we are in the right place-

We get talking to a neighbour(?) and we are delighted when he announces that the old owners are approaching – here come the two sons looking much older, heavier, their hair greying. They look quite 'simple' but greet us with warm, broad smiles and show us their portable market stall. I am tempted to buy a small elf outfit for a baby that retails at $7.99 but (in a move that I just cannot help but regret) I don't-